


you're never fully dressed without a smile

by headfullofbirds



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Bad Puns, Character Study, Dork Adrien Agreste, F/M, Fluff, Introspection, adrien is kind of oblivious but we love him anyway, kind of drabbley i guess, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-25 12:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6195335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headfullofbirds/pseuds/headfullofbirds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the importance of clothes and good friends. Or, Adrien is a little clueless but he's trying very hard. Or, Marinette has <i>plans</i> and Chat Noir keeps interfering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. un chat

**Author's Note:**

> so this was supposed to be a short and sweet piece inspired by one of my conversations with my sister where we yell about miraculous lady bug a lot.  
> unfortunately it quickly veered off into a different direction. i blame this on the fact that it begins in adriens perspective. now, it is a short and sweet beginning to a piece that is part fluff part introspective on adrien being chat noir and part exploration of chat noir's relationship with marinette  
> one thing i've noticed about marichat fic is that while it's super quality shit, it seems to go straight into the snarking a lot. i rewatched the evillustrator as i wrote this, and it's fascinating how marinette interacts with chat because the withholds all her snark until the moments when he cant see her. presumably, this is because she doesn't want him to take to much notice of her or connect her with the snark queen aka ladybug. this makes for some pretty interesting interactions when you put them in a room together, because marinette is trying her hardest not to say sarcastic everything and roll her eyes at every pun, whereas chat is a little baffled as to what exactly marinette is thinking when her face does that thing because adrien is not well versed in emotions.  
> so here it is, adriens beginning to the story. i'd like to say i'll have marinette's side up soon, which will explain many of the things adrien is confusedd about, but i may drown in school work so who knows

There are few things Chat Noir loves more than traversing the rooftops of Paris at night. Other than fighting by his lady’s side, nothing makes him feel as alive as he does flying through the streets, knowing he’s done his part to keep these people safe. He sticks to the shadows, bypassing the pools of light cast by streetlamps and scattered shop windows, watching as people lock up stores and hurry home to their families. Like this, he has a cats-eye-view of the city, and the city is hard pressed to see him, a simple silhouette against the sky, without the benefit of _his_ cat eyes.

It’s the kind of freedom (from responsibility, from stares, from his father) he rarely has as Adrien, so he is understandably reluctant to cut his time short, even if the cold is getting to him a little. He thinks briefly, longingly, of the warm sweaters in his closet, but he isn’t sure he actually owns anything without his father’s label. He’d rather not risk a rabid fan making connections between Chat Noir and anything Agreste, even a simply observation that Chat is wearing something off the new winter line.

Not the mention it feels a little like blasphemy to wear anything associated with his father while he’s transformed. This is the one thing, after all, he’s free to do, something beyond his father’s control. Maybe he could buy something while he’s still transformed? He’s considering the merits of shopping as Chat Noir versus the obvious downfalls of people freaking out over him when he sees her on the street below. Marinette.

His first thought is that, despite the charming pink flush to her cheeks, she looks warm. Her hair is loose under a pink beanie, and her slender figure is only emphasized by an oversized coat, flaring out around her thighs like a cape. She’s juggling several bolts of fabric in her arms, caught between craning her head to see the sidewalk ahead of her and tucking her face down into the protection of her wool scarf.

His second thought is that such a pretty girl should not be walking the streets alone so late at night. He drops down to the street behind her without much thought, landing silently in a crouch, but she still registers the movement.

In that brief moment after he touches down, as he straightens up to stand, she is already twisting her head around to catch a glimpse of him, tensed to take action. He notes her quick response, a practiced motion to her body that speaks of someone with experience in athletics or martial arts, just as the tip of her boot catches on a groove in the sidewalk. With a startled sound, she is tumbling backwards, bolts of fabric flying out of her grip, all traces of grace lost.

He is not Chat Noir for nothing, however, and in this costume everything instinct feels closer to the surface. It’s easier to grasp everything he must suppress as Adrien Agreste, easier to act without thought, to be wild, to throw caution to the wind. He catches Marinette with one arm in a low tango dip and snags a falling bolt of fabric with the other, smirking as her stunned eyes meet his.

Predictably, the second bolt chooses this moment to smack into his head—it’s surprising heavy— before landing on the sidewalk. He loses his hold on Marinette, wincing as she thuds onto the ground, the final bolt of fabric dropping down into her lap.

“Princess,” he says, summoning the bravado of Chat Noir with desperation. “Falling for me already, I see.”

Her face contorts briefly with something like pain, and he quickly gathers the other two bolts of fabric in his arm so he can offer her a hand up.

“That is to say, I mean,” he pulls her up with ease, struggling for words. “Are you all right?”

“Oh yes,” she says, lips twitching. “I’m fine, just clumsy. Thank you for catching me; you certainly slowed my fall.”

“No need to be embarrassed. Many a lovely lady has found herself swooning at my presence,” he tells her, preening under the faint praise. He examines her carefully, though, searching for any injury of soreness. It is only when she clears her throat pointedly that he realizes he’s staring at her ass. He smirks back unashamedly—it’s not like he can see anything through her coat anyway.

“Was there something you needed?” Her tone is as polite as it always is on the few occasions they’ve spoken, but with an undertone of muffled amusement.

“It’s a bit late to be wandering the streets alone, princess,” he says. She turns her face away until her expression is obscured by shadows, but his night vision clearly shows the wry humor displayed there. “Purr-haps you would allow me to chat-perone you?”

A snort escapes her, but her smile has softened when she turns her face back towards him.

“I would be honored,” she tells him, and accepts his offered arm with only a brief shake of her head.

They don’t speak as they make their way to the bakery, Chat allowing her to lead the way so as not to reveal he remembers where she lives quite clearly. It’s oddly comfortable; he doesn’t feel suffocated by expectations as he does with so many people.

“Doesn’t your suit keep you warm?” Marinette asks suddenly, eyeing him with something like concern. He gives her a baffled look, and she raises her eyebrows at him. “Your teeth are chattering,” she explains.

“Don’t you mean chat-tering,” he deflects immediately, thoughtlessly. She holds firm and unamused, like a shadow of something familiar.

He takes his time considering his answer, and then tells her, “Yes, to an extent.” He can feel her eyes on him even as he focused his gaze forward. “In a fight, the adrenaline and movement keep me warm enough, but if I’m out too long the cold will get to me.”

She hums out a noise on understanding as they come to a stop by the bakery’s door, and says, “This is me,” as she pulls out her keys and unlocks the door.

Yet she hesitates before taking back her bolts of fabric, fixing him with those unreadable eyes, and unwinds her scarf from her neck to fix it around his. Then she gathers the bolts from his slack arms.

“Stay warm, Chat,” she tells him, “And don’t stay out too late; you can’t survive off cat naps.”

He grins brightly at her, basking in her smile (her fondness, her concern for him), and takes advantage of her full arms to gently pull one of her hands away from her burden

“And you, princess. Sleep well,” he says, sinking down so he can drop a kiss onto the back of her captive hand.

To his surprise, she allows him this, and then twists her wrist so she can pull his hand back towards her. She examines it with a critical eye, pressing her palm flat against his as comparing the two, and nods firmly to herself.

“Goodnight, _Maître Chat_ ,” she calls over her shoulder, and vanishes into the shop, leaving an impression of warmth and the faint smell of bread behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there it is! marinette what could you possibly be up to hmmm????  
> as a side note, marinette calls him le maître chat for two reasons: one, i think she'd avoid calling him kitty bc of what i mentioned in the beginning notes; and two, this means "the master cat" which is one title of the french version of puss in boots, which i find funny bc he is a cat in boots and also bc i think the story is a hilarious thing to associate chat with and will probably come up later. you should definitely read at least a summary of the fairytale, i think andrew lang probably has a good translation?  
> anyway hope you guys enjoyed!


	2. une couturière

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this was supposed to be up like, two weeks ago at least, but marinette was very stubborn and rl interfered by throwing a bunch of unexpected stuff at me. my house has had guest after guest for the past couple weeks i swear.  
> anyway im not entirely happy with this (and it's no doubt riddled with errors bc i havent edited as diligently as id like). the tone feels a little off as well but ive gotten a really lovely response to this story so i didn't want to keep you guys waiting any longer!! thank you for reading and thank you for your support!

Against her better judgment, Marinette returns to Montremarte the morning after her encounter with Chat Noir. She goes alone rather than attempt to justify two shopping expeditions in a row to Alya. Determined digging though her favorite coupon stores had yielded more than she could have hoped for, even if her wallet is sadly depleted. She spends the early afternoon mocking up muslin gloves and then, running her hands over that scant meter of buttery-soft leather, comes to the inevitable conclusion: she needs proper measurements.

She’s hardly going to spend hours up on her roof in this weather (never mind that Chat may not even be out tonight), so she uses a bright piece of construction paper to invite him to knock if he happens by, and anchors it to the table with a bottle of cream that should keep with the cold.

“Marinette, what are you doing?” Tikki asks, her voice taking on that tone of almost parental censure.

“I need to make sure the gloves will fit,” Marinette says, climbing down from her bed. She doesn’t have to look at Tikki to know what expression she’s wearing. Tikki is her constant companion, the only one who knows both sides of her. This comes with the unfortunate side effect of Tikki seeing straight through her bullshit.

The truth is, Marinette isn’t sure what she’s doing. The afterimage of his face as she questioned the warmth of his transformation has sunk its claws into her mind. Something about it had registered as off, an uncomfortable feeling nagging at her. It had struck her once more, stronger than ever, as her mother reminded her to brush her teeth.

“My parents,” she begins, sinking down into her desk chair, “They worry when I miss classes.”

“Of course they do, Marinette,” Tikki tells her, “They’re your parents!”

It had been an annoyance at the time, to be grounded because she had been fighting akuma, but that’s far from the point now. Absently, she reaches for her sketchbook, still lying open on her desk. There’s a half-formed idea on a page between the layers of rough edges where sheet after sheet has been torn out, and the book falls open to it easily.

“I just,” she struggles for the words, trying to make sense of these burgeoning thoughts. “They were concerned to have me out so late, and I had to call them several times to reassure them I was fine. Alya’s mother offered to walk me home.”

She allows the pencil to skitter over the lines of her sketch, darkening the hesitant strokes in places and redefining them in others. She knows what fabric she’ll be using for this; she’d gravitated to it in the remnants store, pulled by something like the hyper focus of Lucky Charm.

Finally, looking down at the finished design, she has to acknowledge the question on her mind. Tikki is settled on her shelf, watching her with patient, sleepy eyes.

“Do you think Chat Noir has someone waiting at home for him?” Marinette rushes to continue, unwilling to give time for a response. “I mean, when we’re fighting akuma it’s one thing, but if he’s off gallivanting on rooftops at all hours, wouldn’t his parents be worried?”

            “Marinette…” Tikki says quietly, her big eyes full of concern, but somehow measuring as well. She says nothing further, which is well enough because Marinette has worked herself into a fervor now, standing violently up from her chair to seize onto a fresh meter of muslin.

“It’s not that I want to know who he is,” Marinette says firmly, working a wax pencil across the fabric with assistance from her measuring tape. Chat Noir is about the same size as Adrien, she thinks, and she knows his dimensions well enough.

She doesn’t want to know who he is. There are a thousand reasons, not least of all because she doesn’t want to reveal her own identity. No one can know who she is, she’s sure of that much, and she likes to keep her two halves separate. Honestly, she tries to avoid interaction with Chat as Marinette. It’s not that hard; if he’s out and about, she’s probably needed as Ladybug anyway. Walking with him was like being pulled in two directions, the rational part of her fighting with that Ladybug urge to roll her eyes at his antics or provide a witty rejoinder to his ridiculousness.

Her scissors bite into the fabric with more force than it strictly wise, so she takes a moment to breathe deeply. He isn’t going to find out whom she is. She isn’t going to pry into whom he is. But he needs some looking after, clearly, so she can at least make sure he doesn’t freeze to death because he wanted to go for a walk. She won’t question why he’d rather wander the cold rooftops than stay safe and warm at home either.

“When I gave him my scarf,” she tells Tikki at last, “He seemed so surprised.”

How many times have her parents reminded her to dress warmly? She’d witnessed this habit between the two, even, watched her father carefully button her mother’s coat and drop a kiss goodbye on her cheek, or chase after her with a forgotten pair of gloves. It’s a simple thing amongst family or friends, making sure they’re properly outfitted for the weather. She remembers quite fondly, a blush rising to her cheeks, a certain boy offering her an umbrella.

Yet Chat had seemed knocked off kilter, as if her concern was unfamiliar. When she wrapped her scarf around his neck, the action had undone something in him, leaving him loose and stripped bare in a way Ladybug had never seen. Chat was often childish, but he was rarely so… small.

“The way he looked at me,” she says, beginning to match up edges so she can pin them. “I think Chat could use a few more people looking out for him.”

Not that he doesn’t bounce back, of course. He’s persistent, especially in a fight, and she wouldn’t think to baby him. Small kindnesses, though, she thinks he could use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a couple of notes here.  
> so in paris (from my bit of research on the subject) there are a few really nice/big stores there with amazing stock in Montremarte, but you can also go to the remnants stores (and the big stores have theirs like, across the street) for cheaper finds in shorter rolls. these are called coupons stores in france.  
> i did spend some time considering whether the events of the latest episode would be in this story or not. im leaning towards yes, but not directly, and i dont think certain new characters will be included.  
> chat's next part is at least half written up; hopefully that wont take much longer


	3. un petit prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so! so. um. sorry?  
> i didnt lie when i said the chapter shouldnt take to long--the truth is i havent touched this since the beginning of april. it's been done since then, i just hadn't posted it.  
> the reasons for that are numerous, but i guess a large part of it is that i had much bigger plans for this piece and it's just not going to be possible to fulfill those. i'm finally adding the third chapter, but for the foreseeable future, it's also going to be the final chapter.  
> thank you all so much for your support; it does mean the world to me. i hope you enjoy!

It isn't like he _planned_ to visit Marinette, Chat tells himself. He simple happened to… wander in this direction. That he brought her scarf is irrelevant. He’s in the area by coincidence, and now he’s going to leave. Unless, maybe he should return her scarf?

Perched on the edge of a roof across the way from the bakery, Chat makes a decision to use his usual strategy in battle: do, don’t think. With reckless abandon, he uses his staff to _cat_ apult over the street, executes several somersaults midair, and lands in a perfect crouch, seamlessly straightening into the classic gymnastics salute. The street is near empty, entirely void of applause.

There’s no end to the number of videos online of him falling flat on his face. He’s seen compilations. _Remixes_. But does anyone appreciate his parkour skills? Of course not.

This may have something to do with his habit of blending in to the shadows and avoiding people as he traverses the rooftops, but he’s allowed to be in a bad mood once in a while. Or, Chat is, at least.

It’s dark enough that most people would have trouble reading, but the bright pink paper on the table would probably glow even if he didn’t have night-vision. _Maître chat_ , it says, _you are welcome to come in, as long as you knock first and remember to wipe your boots._ It isn’t signed, just a doodle of a cat in a waistcoat brushing its shoes off on a doormat at the bottom and bottle of cream sat on the edge to keep it from flying away. He frees it from the weight carefully and tucks it into one of his zip pockets. The handwriting reminds him of something (he can’t quite place his paw on _what_ ), but he really wants it for the drawing. He knows Marinette is a talented artist, he’s seen the hat she made and the album cover, but this is something more casual, something just for him.

There isn’t actually anywhere to wipe his boots, so he raps twice on the glass and carefully maneuvers himself through one handed, the other full with the cream, swinging himself out to avoid stepping on the bed. He manages to land in a squat on the loft’s railing, balanced on the balls of his feet (hears a mechanical humming from below him abruptly halt). Then he shifts minutely, his boots slipping on the metal, and in his efforts to avoid letting go of the bottle or falling into Marinette’s bed, he finds himself toppling forward. He has barely a second to curl inwards to protect the glass before he’s introducing himself to the floor, but he executes a forward roll and casually pops to his feet. He opens up the bottle and takes a sip before turning around, trying to play it cool. Because he is cool. Very cool.

Marinette is watching him with wide eyes, the area around scattered with scraps of fabric. She must be speechless from his entrance. Her eyes dart to his lips…

“You have a milk mustache,” she tells him, spinning her chair back around to the sewing machine. “Can you stay out of trouble for a minute? I want to finish this up.”

“I was making an entrance,” he insists, but it may be lost in the sound of the machine starting again. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand (because there’s no one here to lecture him about manners), and ambles over to see what she’s working on.

Chat doesn’t get too close at first; he’s just trying to get a slightly better view, but he can’t see much with her hunched over the machine, so he edges a little closer, and closer still. The movements of fabric passing through the machine, guided by her steady hands, are mesmerizing. He leans over her shoulder watching how the needle moves from side to side as it perforates the fabric, hitting slightly to this side and that of the lines marked to produce a zigzagging stitch. The finger on his nose, pushing his face back, is entirely unexpected.

“Your scarf is going to get caught,” she says, and then reverses the machine to finish the stitch. He watches her raise the needle and foot of the machine, cutting the thread with a swift jerking motion, and power it down.

When she stands, he’s still close enough that she nearly slams her head into his chin. He follows her to her chaise at a similar distant, amused at the commanding attitude she’s adopted.

“Don’t move,” she orders him, darting back over to her desk. She returns with a tape measure, the rolled length cradled in her right palm like it belongs there. It whips around him with surprising speed, but Marinette’s eyebrows furrow more and more as she takes his measurements.

“Is there a reason you’re measuring me? I mean,” he flexes his biceps, trying to get that expression off her face, “I know I’m ailuro-ing but you don’t need to make excuses to put your hands on me.”

Blank stare. Not the best reaction he’s ever gotten to his flirting. He hazards a guess at the source.

“Ailuro-ing? Like, alluring, but also like aílouros, the Greek word for cat,” he explains.

She stumbles a step backwards and turns promptly on her heel, rushing back to her desk. She stands there for a few long seconds, hand grasped tight on her chair, bent over with shoulders shaking like she’s crying or—

“Are you _laughing_ at me?”

“I can’t do this,” she gasps out, “I can’t… How are you such a nerd?”

Wow, uncalled for.

He’s a little shocked, and he’d be more hurt but she’s snorting a little and there are tears in the corners of her eyes and she’s grinning wide like he might be part of the joke, not just the subject of it.

She gets herself under control eventually (unfortunately), and pulls some mess of pins and plain fabric from under the mass of red-orange at her sewing machine. He’s fairly focused on figuring out how she’s managing not to stab herself, so he thinks he can be excused for not figuring out immediately what exactly she’s brandishing at him.

“Um,” he starts, “Princess, you do realize I’m _already_ wearing gloves, right?”

It’s what they are, clearly, past the pins and half sewn edges and odd doubled sections. He regrets saying anything immediately; she sort of… melts a little, like she’s suddenly lost that iron spine.

“Well, now you have more glove! Gloves. More. Layers. Ugh,” she groans, covering her charmingly red face with her hands. “This was a terrible idea.”

Looking more closely at them, the bumps resolve themselves into paw pads. She was going to make him cat gloves. She was going to make him _cat gloves_.

He may be a little bit in love right now.

Not like he loves his Lady, obviously, because his Lady is perfection incarnated, but lately their interactions have been a little off, strained with unspoken thoughts. They still haven’t addressed what happened with Volpina, and the lack of akuma attacks is making them both antsy, so this is… different. Nice.

He picks on the mockup that seems farthest along (mostly sewn, no pins lying in wait to jab him) and tries to gently slide it on. It’s a pretty good fit considering, and the design thoughtfully leaves his fingertips free so his claws aren’t stuck inside the fabric.

“I’m not sure how much use these would be with my transformation,” he admits, examining the neat stitching, “But I’d still love to have a pair of gloves like this.”

Cat gloves. _Cat gloves_.

Wait. What is he saying? He can’t wear something Marinette made him as Adrien—she goes to his school, she’ll recognize them right away. And yet, even in this rough stage of development the work is quality, and he’s enamored with her style.

“Just—to have,” he clarifies, “Or I could wear them to the next non-violent public appearance, maybe? Give your designs my endorsement, you know. I could even,” he cuts himself off before he can finish with ‘ _model for you,_ ’ because he’s already said enough stupid things today, and finishes the sentence with, “Commission you properly.”

She’s wide eyed but this time he thinks he’s managed to properly shock her, because it’s an expression unlike any he’s seen on her before. It’s like she’s just been walloped in the stomach.

“Let me think it over,” she tells him finally, divesting him of the glove and assorted mock-ups. “I should be getting to bed; I do have school tomorrow.”

He feels like he’s made a misstep of some kind, but he isn’t sure how because this girl is a mystery to him. He wants her to be impressed (Chat Noir wants to show off _her designs!_ ) but the casual way she laughed at him seemed more natural, more right somehow, and he’s just as lost as to how he’s supposed to be feeling.

“Until next time, then, Princess,” he acquiesces, bowing to her turned back, and vanishes out the window before she can reply.

When he slips back into his darkened room, he’s oddly drained. Luckily, Plagg is easily distracted with camembert before he can start giving his commentary of their interactions, and Adrien can escape to his closet to change.

He lingers even after he’s in his pajamas, absently holding Marinette’s scarf in his hands for a long minute before he can finally make himself put it away. As he hangs it beside the scarf his father gave him for his last birthday, something strikes him as odd. The similarities in stitching, the lack of a tag, some nebulous connection he can’t quite grasp…

Or he’s just tired.

He shakes his head to clear it and heads to bed. Tomorrow is a new day with his usual packed schedule. He falls asleep thinking of something gold flitting just out of reach.


End file.
